“Of course he can read,” snapped Joan. “Show them, Geoffrey!”
“Geoffrey thought he was this mythical Godfrey, did he?” asked the Earl, ignoring her. “Well, it does not matter that he cannot read for you. Your clerk will do that later. The will you hold is a copy, by the way: the original is safely in Shrewsbury. Now, I am sure you will not be so rash, nor so ungrateful for my protection all these years, as to hurt my feelings by contesting the will?”
“But what will we do?” asked Bertrada in a small voice. “Where will we go?”
“To Rwirdin, I suppose, if Sir Geoffrey will have you there,” said the Earl. “What you do is really none of my concern, and I honestly do not care. But I want you out of my castle, and off my land within a week. I shall be back then to take possession, and I will deal harshly with anyone who is still here.”
“But this cannot be happening!” cried Walter, still clutching the offending piece of paper. He leaned down and jerked Geoffrey’s head up by the hair. “For God’s sake, man! Read it before it is too late!”
The Earl made a hasty, crab-like movement to one side as Geoffrey’s stomach protested against the sudden movement.
“Have a care, Walter,” he said angrily. “He was almost sick over me, and these boots cost me a fortune. And whether he reads it or not will make no difference: it will say the same thing whoever reads it to you. The manor is mine. Now, let us not part on bad terms. I would like your congratulations on my new acquisition before I leave.”
He stood, hands on hips, displaying the fine cut of his clothes, and waited.
“Do not make an enemy of a man like the Earl of Shrewsbury,” said Geoffrey, squinting up at his brothers and sister. “Do you not know of his reputation?”
The Earl eyed him sharply, and then laughed. “Is that what they advised you last night? I wondered what Stephen was muttering about. So, it seems I have him, and not you, to thank for my Arabian daggers. In which case, you are still in my debt, Sir Geoffrey Mappestone. I would take the third dagger, but I think I will decline, given its recent use. I will claim something else in due course, when the fancy takes me.”
If the Devil does not take you first, thought Geoffrey, wishing he had aimed a little more accurately at the Earl’s expensive boots.
“I wish you well,” muttered Walter bitterly, seeing that the Earl was not going to leave until he had his satisfaction. He gave a clumsy bow, and was away, tugging his wife behind him. One by one, the others followed suit, leaving to make their way back to the hall, presumably to engage in another of their violent discussions.
“And you, Sir Geoffrey? Will you not offer me your felicitations?” asked the Earl smoothly, leaning down to look Geoffrey in the eye.
“I wish you as much joy of Goodrich as it has brought me,” said Geoffrey.
“That is ambiguous!” said the Earl, with arched eyebrows. “But I have come to expect as much from you.” He coughed gently. “You realise, of course, that you owe me your life?”
“Really?” asked Geoffrey without conviction. “And how is that?”
“Despite what I said to Henry, you are still my prime suspect for the murder of Godric.” When Geoffrey did not answer, the Earl continued. “Your pretence of drunkenness is nothing more than that-how can you be drunk, and yet not smell of the wine you consumed? But I saved you from Henry’s vengeful hands anyway. You would have been kicking empty air by now, had I not intervened.”
This was very possibly true, thought Geoffrey. “But unless you are prepared to settle for a book, or the dagger that murdered my father, I have nothing that would interest you,” he said.
“There is always Rwirdin,” said the Earl casually. “Of course, it is nothing like the prize of Goodrich and its castles and bridges, but it is well situated for hunting in the Forest of Dene, and it is a pretty place by all accounts.”
“It seems you do not need my permission to take it,” said Geoffrey, nodding to the copy of the will that Walter had hurled to the ground in a futile display of temper.
The Earl could always fake wills, as he had appeared to have done to secure possession of Godric’s lands. Had the Earl also ordered one of his henchmen to slip up the stairs in the dead of night and slay the dying Godric too? After all, it would save him the inconvenience of returning later to present his claim, after Godric had died a natural death.
The Earl gazed at him with his beady eyes. “You are more astute than I gave you credit for. Yes, I will take Rwirdin if the fancy takes me. But I am inclined to let you keep it for a little while longer, for two reasons. First, I do not want your treacherous brothers and sisters hanging around my court claiming that they are homeless, and demanding that I take their brats into my household. And second, you were once in the service of the Duke of Normandy, and he is a man for whom I feel some kinship.”
“I do not understand,” said Geoffrey, wishing the Earl would leave, so he could lie down and sleep. “Why should my association with the Duke stay your hand?”
“There will be a time when the Duke will come to England to claim what King Henry has stolen from him-the crown. I have not yet decided whom I will support, but at this point in time, the Duke has a greater hold over my loyalties. You might well be here-the Duke will need every fighting man he can muster, because King Henry has grown powerful.”
“You spared me from being hanged because you anticipate that I will fight for the Duke of Normandy against the King of England?” asked Geoffrey, stupefied by the convoluted logic.
“Put like that, it sounds a little crass,” said the Earl, smiling. “But you have grasped the essence of my argument. Of course, should I decide to fight for King Henry, you will need to make another choice. But that is an issue for future discussion. What will you do now? Will you visit your manor at Rwirdin?”
“Rwirdin was Joan’s dowry,” said Geoffrey. “It is no longer mine.”
“But Joan’s possession of it is illegal, and would never stand up in a court of law. So, Sir Geoffrey, I am still your liege lord, and you had better expect to encounter me again. And, despite the little agreement we have just made, if you have not learned the folly of your insolent ways by then, I will kill you.”
“If I do not kill you first,” whispered Geoffrey to himself, watching the Earl stride across the courtyard to where his retinue awaited him.
‘Sir Geoffrey!” cried Helbye, hurrying across the yard shortly after the Earl and his cavalcade had gone. “What is all this I hear about Sir Godric being dead and Walter being dispossessed? What will happen to the village if the Earl of Shrewsbury comes to Goodrich?” He stopped short when he saw Geoffrey, and knelt beside him in horror. “Lord save us, lad! What have they done to you?”
“They poisoned him,” said Julian, appearing from nowhere. “Just like they did with Enide.”
“Enide?” echoed Helbye. “My wife says she was beheaded, not poisoned. And who would want to poison Sir Geoffrey? You are out of your wits, boy!”
“They poisoned Enide too, just as they poisoned Sir Godric,” insisted Julian. “She tried to find out who and why, and it was then that she was murdered.”
“I feel dreadful, Will,” mumbled Geoffrey.
For the first time, he truly believed his father’s claims that someone at the castle had been poisoning him. He could think of no reason-other than poison-that could be responsible for the way he felt at that moment. He put his head in his hands.
“Did you take much ale or wine last night?” asked Helbye, sitting back on his heels and regarding Geoffrey sympathetically.
“None at all,” said Geoffrey. But that was not true, he recalled. He had drunk some of the wine Stephen had brought him before he had fallen asleep. He vividly recalled Stephen breaking the seal on the wine to offer it to him. But had he? What if the seal had already been broken and the poison already added? Was Stephen the poisoner, then? Or was the toxin contained within Hedwise’s revolting broth, which Walter had insisted that he finish? Or perhaps the poisoner was Malger or Drogo, or even the Earl himself-who was reputed to be familiar with such potions. Thinking was making Geoffrey’s head ache, and he rubbed it, longing for sleep.